


I against I

by tgtchm



Category: The Grand Tour (TV) RPF, Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OT3, The Fracas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 02:02:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12520460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tgtchm/pseuds/tgtchm
Summary: The fracas, and what happens afterwards





	I against I

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally published on the 19th November 2015 (by me under a different username) and I'm reuploading it now as a process of moving my works from one account to the other. it's been edited for punctuation errors but nothing else.

_4th March, 2015_  
Change is a strange and wonderful thing.

All throughout his life, Jeremy can pinpoint moments where his life has shifted, drastically, all at once: A phone call from a hospital in Leeds. Francie sitting him down at the table and telling him she would like a divorce. Richard, eyes dark and mouth full of sin, dragging him down to a bed, James’ hands around his middle. One number plate. One word. A careless remark.

So when the emotions that have been boiling inside him for months, rage and bitterness and resentment, finally boil over and he pulls back his fist and punches Oisin square on the mouth, it’s of no surprise to him when he realises this is one of those moments.

It seems to happen in slow motion after that: the way Oisin stumbles back, surprise etched all over his features; Andy catching him, arms wrapping around his torso to stop him from swinging at Jeremy, unquestionable rage in his eyes; looking over and seeing James and Richard, James with a biscuit halfway to his mouth, Richard stepping forward, arm outstretched, reaching for him; the others around him staring, horrified.

He turns and flees, shoving through the front door of the hotel blindly, reaching into his pocket for his keys; thank God he’d driven himself here this morning, and not caught a lift with one of the others. As his fingers close around the door handle of his Mercedes, as he slips inside, clipping his seatbelt, as he puts his foot down and powers out of the carpark, gravel spraying everywhere behind him as his wheels spin, he can’t fight the feeling of dread that settles around him like a cloak.

***

“James,” Richard barks, grabbing him by the arm.

He stiffens, and pulls back from the contact; even though this is the same Richard he kissed long and hard last night, it’s not the done thing to be touching in public, they both know that. He looks down at the shorter man, his mouth set in a grim line, and knows what he is about to say.

“Go after him, James,” Richard orders.

James shifts, looking over at Andy, who is bellowing orders frantically. “I… I don’t know what to say.”

Richard steps in front of him, drawing his eyes again. He looks businesslike, even if James knows that’s just a front. “ _Go_ , James. He’ll be distraught.”

James looks around—observing the chaos around them—and pulls Richard by the sleeve into an adjacent room, out of view of everyone. “I’m not very good at this, you know.”

Richard looks at him earnestly and burrows closer, craving closeness. “You’re better than I am at comforting him. I’d just end up shouting and I don’t think that’s what he needs right now. I’ll stay here and do damage control.”

James presses a chaste kiss to Richard’s lips, smiling slightly. “You’re much more adept at causing damage than controlling it, Richard.”

Richard smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They both know that for all the anger Jeremy holds inside him sometimes, he is not a violent man. They’ve all had their share of drunken yobbos in pubs harass them; they are usually drawn to Jeremy. He usually just stands up to scare them away, towering over them. He’s not punched someone before—well, apart from Piers Morgan, but they all let that one slide—let alone a member of the team.

He turns and heads out the door of the hotel, fumbling in his pocket for the keys to his BMW, observing how furious Andy is as he goes. In twelve years, and all the cock-ups imaginable, James knows this is one on a new, unprecedented scale.

***

“Get Jeremy back here as fast as you fucking can, Hammond.” Andy snarls. “I’ll rip his fucking head off if I have to.”

“Right,” Richard deadpans, nodding. Andy has started to go purple in the face by this point, the police have arrived, and Richard is altogether regretting not leaving earlier with James. He’s been on the receiving end of Andy’s rant for too long now, and it’s starting to grate. He has done remarkably well at keeping himself controlled, resisting the urge to scream or hit something.

His phone vibrates in his pocket as he edges out towards the hotel doors. “Right. I’ll bring him back here. Got it.”

Andy shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. He’s known Jeremy for longer than Richard has—God only knows what he’s thinking right now. “He’s your fucking boyfriend, Richard, you should've kept him on a shorter leash.”

Slightly stunned, he turns away and pushes open the front door of the hotel, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “James. Andy knows.”

James sighs heavily down the line. “Somehow I think that’s of the least concern right now, Richard. I haven’t caught up to him.”

“No, of course not. You drive like an OAP and he’ll just have his foot down,” he mutters, sliding into his Porsche and turning the ignition. “Do you know where he’s gone?”

“Well, it could be any one of three places, really. Is he more likely to go to his flat, your flat or my house? Statistically, I’m more inclined to say my house, as we have—”

“James,” Richard snaps irritably, pulling out of the carpark, phone balanced precariously between his thighs. “It’s four hours from here to London. We’ve got a while to work it out. Where are you?”

James tells him his location and they hang up. They can only hope that Jeremy has enough sense to not get caught by the cameras or the police; but of all the things they’ve done together, punching is a producer is not one of them, and they both have no idea how Jeremy is at the moment.

As he drives onto the motorway, putting his foot down, the absurdity of the situation strikes him. It’s not like they’d all _intended_ to become lovers; it had just sort of… happened, as things with them tended to do.

They’d been drunk on some cheap wine Jeremy had bought over for one of their curry nights at James’, and Richard—whose drinking ability had never quite recovered after his accident and that year he’d spent sober—was drunker than the other two, who were sitting on the sofa watching some boring old war documentary.

“This is so dull,” he mumbled, staring stubbornly at the television. “Can’t we put something on with explosions in?”

“This does have explosions, Richard,” James pointed out, reaching for his wine glass and finishing it in one smooth swallow.

Richard screwed up his face and gripped the back of the sofa. “Proper explosions, not ones in black and white—”

At this point, he’d taken a step forward to illustrate his point and had tripped on the sofa, pitching forward and ending up splayed across Jeremy and James’ laps, his head in Jeremy’s crotch, arse in James’ face.

“Fuck, Hammond, if you wanted to get up close and personal with my gentleman’s area you should have just said,” Jeremy laughed, placing his hands on Richard’s shoulders and rolling him over onto his back and by God Jeremy must have been drunk because he leant down and kissed him full on the mouth like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Jeremy tasted like wine and cigarettes and Richard had reacted immediately, arching up, reaching for Jeremy’s head, missing, grabbing the back of his neck instead, pulling him down, closer, drinking him in. He felt James’ hands rest on his ankles, and suddenly longed to touch him, too, but was interrupted by Jeremy pulling back with a grimace.

“I can’t bloody bend over like that, Richard. I’ll put my back out,” Jeremy grumbled, shifting backwards.

Trying to ignore the way James felt shaking with laughter underneath him, Richard wriggled out from Jeremy’s lap and punched him on the shoulder lightly. “You can’t just kiss a man without warning,” he complained, sliding into a spot on the sofa between them, legs pressed up against each of them. “It’s _rude_. You should _ask_ ,” he finished grumpily.

“May I kiss you, Richard?” James asked, to his left, and Richard turned to see him leaning over, hair falling into his face.

“Much better,” he muttered, leaning forward to kiss James, ignoring Jeremy’s squawk of indignation behind him.

Jolted out of his reverie, Richard switches lanes and shakes his head, clearing away the dregs of the memory. That had been less than a year ago, and they’d stuck together after that. Jeremy had had quite a few crises over his sexuality, and they’d had countless rows, but they’d all come out the other side together, and he had no doubt this was any different.

***

Hours and hours of mindless driving later, and James finally finds a park right out the front of Jeremy’s flat, miraculously. Letting himself in with the key that he’s had for years—even before things changed—he finds it empty, as he expected it would be.

He pulls out his telephone and rings Richard who, at their last check-in, was less than an hour behind, and gaining fast. “Richard?”

Richard sighs. “He wasn’t there, was he?”

“No, he wasn’t,” James replies, tucking the telephone between his ear and shoulder, sticking the kettle under the faucet. He may as well have a quick cup of tea while he’s here. He’s got time.

“For fucks sake!” Richard yells down the line, startling James so much that he jumps into the air, the phone clattering to the ground. Not that it matters, because he can hear Richard from all the way up here, shouting angrily. “How can we have lost our colleague, James? Perhaps we should have put a fucking leash on him like a dog. You better start making posters now, we can put them around his neighbourhood! Missing: one stupid, fat, idiotic, brash, rage-inducing man. Responds to Jeremy Clarkson—”

“Richard,” James interjects, scooping the telephone off the floor.

Richard, paying him no mind, continues, “—oh, and by the way, he’s just assaulted a member of his own fucking crew, endangering all our jobs and his relationship with our employers, the fucking _BBC_ no less—”

“Hammond,” he tries again.

“—so if you see him can you please call Richard Hammond and James May, the two poor saps who are just along for the ride!” Richard finishes with a flourish.

They lapse into silence. James flicks the kettle on, listening to it begin to boil before speaking, giving Richard a moment to calm his nerves. “We’re not just along for the ride, though, are we?”

“God, no,” Richard blurts. “I’d follow him to the ends of the earth, you know that. You’d do the same.”

James laughs. “Andy get to you, did he?”

“How did you know?” Richard replies. “Fucking—get out of my lane, you pillock. Sorry.”

Pouring the water carefully, James bites back a smile. “Because I’ve known you for years. Just—hurry up, please, Richard? I’ll head over to your flat and check there after this.”

“You’ve made yourself a cup of fucking tea, haven’t you? Christ’s sake, James,” Richard admonishes, but James can hear his smile through the phone line.

***

Jeremy wasn’t at Richard’s flat, either, meaning there’s only one place he really could be, so Richard turns off the motorway and heads to Hammersmith, stomach churning with nervousness. He’s seen Jeremy in every conceivable mood under the sun, from angry to turned-on to elated—but he hasn’t seen Jeremy ever punch someone before.

He manages to get a park within a reasonable distance and starts walking. The sun had set long ago, and he tilts his head up to the stars, staring at the moon, feeling the fresh air on his face. It’s nice to be out of his car and on his feet—as much as he loves his Porsche, being trapped in it for five and a half hours isn’t ideal.

He meets James out the front, nicking the fag that he’s smoking and taking a drag.

“You’ve given up,” James points out, watching with hungry eyes as he wraps his lips around the dying fag.

Richard shrugs. “Stressful times, mate.” He crushes the fag underfoot and looks at James, really looks at him for the first time in hours, and sighs. “What’re we going to find in there?”

James takes a step closer and touches his face, the pad of his thumb rubbing gently along his jaw, up to stroke his cheekbone. “It’s just Jeremy, Richard. It was just a punch.”

Nodding, Richard fishes in his pocket for his keys to James’ place, but he can’t help but shake a feeling of dread. This isn’t just a punch and somehow he knows there are going to be far-reaching consequences.

***

They find him sitting on James’ back step, numerous cigarette butts littered around his feet, evidence he’s been here a while—whenever he’s in a stressful situation, he chain smokes relentlessly. Beside him on the step is a bottle, nearly empty, of James’ scotch.

James turns to Richard, who looks back at him, eyebrows furrowed. “Go and put the kettle on. I’ll have a word.”

They both know that James is better at comforting Jeremy—it’s just a fact, in the same way that Richard is better at taking the piss out of him. They balance out, the three of them, quite nicely. So Richard nods and turns away, chewing his lip nervously. James doesn’t need to be a mind reader to see the worry etched all over his face.

He sits down next to Jeremy on the step, moving the bottle out of the way with a quiet clink. They sit in silence for a bit, neither of them saying anything, just relaxing into each other’s company. He looks up at the moon, bathing the garden in its pale, filtered light.

“God, James, I’m sorry,” Jeremy croaks, running a hand over his face, turning to look at James, and he looks like he’s aged fifty years in a few hours.

James shakes his head and reaches out, placing his hand on Jeremy’s arm. Part of this thing—this relationship—the three of them have had involved putting aside his rules about personal contact, at least behind closed doors. He’s still not used to actually reaching out and putting his hands on the other two, but he tries. Jeremy leans into his touch, stubbing out his fag on the bricks beneath their feet.

“What happened?” James asks, voice barely more than a whisper.

Jeremy barks a short, sharp burst of laughter, looking up into the sky, shaking his head ruefully, a twisted smile on his face. “I was a fucking idiot. That’s what happened.”

“That’s not what I meant,” James replies, shifting uncomfortably.

Jeremy turns to him, and James can taste the sadness coming off him in waves, can see it etched in every line, every crease on his face. “I know what you meant, and that’s all the answer you’re getting.”

“Get this down your neck, you stubborn fat bastard,” Richard says from over their shoulders, offering two cups of tea outstretched, a peace offering. Somehow his usual abrasiveness breaks the tension and Jeremy smiles, grabbing the mug and taking a sip.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say, Hamster,” Jeremy shoots back, grabbing Richard by the wrist with his free hand and pulling him down so they all sit in a row like ducks, rubbing up against each other.

James takes a sip of the tepid tea and winces. Despite offering to teach him, Richard always has and continues to make an awful cup of tea. Getting up, ignoring the awful _crack_ his knees make, he pours the tea into the garden calmly, smiling as Richard squeaks.

“James! I made that for you!” he roars, getting up from the step and snatching the now-empty mug from his hands.

He shrugs, aware of Jeremy falling over himself in mirth behind them. If he has to play the fool to put the smile back on his face, then play the fool he shall. “Then you shouldn’t have made such a hash of it.”

Standing there in that garden, the stars shining down upon them all, Richard puffing himself up for a rant, Jeremy flopping around on his back step helplessly, hand clutched to his stomach, James has hope. They can make it through this.

***

 _6th March, 2015_  
Much to Richard’s disappointment, they’ve all decided to stay separate for the moment, mainly because, as James so logically pointed out, the cameras of the world are about to be pointed at Jeremy’s front door—and it would look very suspicious indeed if the three of them were coming and going—or rather, coming and staying.

So when he returns from his morning run to see two photographers camped outside his front door, and another two rounding the corner, he frowns. It’s started.

He scoops up the paper lying on his doorstep and heads inside, ignoring the numerous cries of “Richard! What do you think about what happened?”, slamming the door heavily and pressing his back to it, unfurling the paper carefully—and there he is, a candid photo of Jeremy leaving his flat, front page bloody news. He throws the paper on the floor in disgust and picks up his mobile to phone James, who answers on the first ring.

“They’ve started haranguing you too, I suppose?” James asks quietly.

He rubs his temples, trying to stave off the oncoming headache that he can feel building up already. “Four, last time I checked. All shouting at me about what I think. Like they care, they just want to get a quote.”

“I’ve got a TV camera. Do you have one?”

“It’s not a bloody competition, James,” he replies, fetching a glass from the cabinet and sticking it under the faucet. “How is he?”

James chuckles. “Asleep still, almost certainly. I daren’t wake him up.”

Bending down to the freezer to grab some ice cubes, which he sticks in his glass of water, Richard sighs heavily down the phone. “I have a nasty feeling we won’t be seeing much of each other over the next few weeks. The photographers will be relentless. Like vultures. Or… I don’t know. Something awful.”

James goes quiet for a moment, and Richard can picture him perfectly: standing in his kitchen in a t-shirt and pyjama pants, perhaps the spotty ones with a hole in one leg, a cup of tea in one hand, probably in the cat mug Jeremy had got him for Christmas. The sunlight streaming in the window, illuminating the soft strands around his face, turning them from silver to gold and bathing the room in an almost otherworldly glow.

And he’s here in his dingy kitchen with his running gear on, sweaty and disgusting, unshaved, clutching a glass of water desperately in one hand, his phone in the other. It’s a laughable sight.

“We can’t be with him when he needs us most.” James whispers, so faintly Richard nearly misses it.

***

 _10th March, 2015_  
“I’m going over there. I don’t give a fuck,” Richard yells down the phone line, squawking so loudly James has to hold the phone away from his ear.

He wants to scream, which isn’t a sensation he’s familiar with. How can he explain—simply, because Richard isn’t very smart when he’s angry—that is the very opposite of a good idea? “You can’t, Richard, there are photographers everywhere—”

“He just got _suspended_!” Richard roars. “The show was everything to him, you know it, James. It’s what’s kept him going for so long.”

James pauses. The horrible, awful couple of years they’ve had—Jeremy’s divorce, the trouble in Argentina, Shirley’s passing, the doctor telling Jeremy he may have cancer—should have stopped them in their tracks. But they kept going, pulling each other up by the bootstraps, Jeremy clinging to _Top Gear_ like it was a life raft and he was drowning, throwing his heart and soul into the show. Now that it’s been ripped away from him, he’s cast adrift.

James drives his fist into the wood of his door frame, frustrated beyond belief. He knows how much Jeremy must be hurting now—even though they all knew this was coming, it was still a terrible shock—but he can’t get to him, can’t draw him close and tell him that it will all be alright.

He doesn’t even know if it will be alright, not really.

“I’ve got to go to him, James. Please,” Richard begs hoarsely. “I’ll see if I can meet him somewhere. But I can’t just fucking—wait around for him to drink himself to death.”

James picks a splinter out of his knuckle and sighs, the noise echoing around the empty kitchen. “Alright. Let’s meet him somewhere. Not at the flat.”

They hang up and he grabs his keys, pulling a jumper over his head and jamming a hat on his head as he exits through the front door to a cacophony of flashes, blinding him. He shoulders past them, heading resolutely down the street, head held high like his world isn’t crumbling around him.

***

“You look like shit,” Richard blurts as he spies Jeremy, sliding into the booth across from him.

They’ve ended up at a service station just outside of Dover, a place that Jeremy had blurted out when James asked him where to meet. Richard hoped it was on his mind for a reason other than flinging himself off the cliffs; he was about to make a joke but it had died on his tongue upon seeing Jeremy’s face. The man looks older, greyer, more haggard.

James elbows him in the side painfully, shooting daggers at him. This isn’t a visit to make Jeremy feel bad, and in fact, they should be doing the opposite. “Sorry,” he mumbles sheepishly.

“S’alright, Hammond,” Jeremy sighs, and he sounds like a cynical, world-wearied man. “I know I do.”

The fact that Jeremy hasn’t rebuffed him with a quip about how he should look in the mirror has him worried, and when he looks at James, he can tell he’s thinking the same thing. “How’d you get here?”

Jeremy looks at him like he’s got a second head, which is better than complete indifference, he supposes. “I drove, you git.”

“Right, right,” Richard hums, realising he had walked past Jeremy’s Mercedes but a moment ago in the car park. He’s completely lost for words, off balance.

Perhaps it’s because he’s never seen Jeremy look so utterly defeated, so void of life. The spark behind his eyes has gone; the very essence that was animating him has vanished. It’s stupid and sappy of him, but this isn’t Jeremy. It’s not _his_ Jeremy.

The awkwardness hangs in the air around them and makes it hard to breathe. It’s not been like this with them before, all unsure of what to say, and it feels odd, especially since they can normally talk for hours about absolutely anything. Even when they’ve had a row, it never lasts long—mainly because one of the others sees something exciting that they just have to share and the fight goes forgotten. It’s never been _painful_ before.

He looks at the cup of tea Jeremy is cradling and pushes it with a finger. “Jezza, you know how I make really rubbish tea?”

Jeremy looks up at this, the faintest hint of a smile forming at the corners of his lips. “How could I forget? You shack up with someone as anal-retentive about tea as James and still don’t know how to make a proper bloody cup.”

It’s the most he’s said the whole time they’ve been there, so Richard grins, encouraged. “It’s because every time he tries to teach me, I get distracted…” he murmurs, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“Hammond!” James hisses, eyes darting about the room nervously, hyper-aware of the other patrons, paranoid that someone’s going to overhear them. But no one is paying them any mind, and Jeremy’s smiling gleefully now, so Richard continues, kicking James in the shins underneath the table.

“Well, who’s tea is worse? Mine,” he gestures at himself wildly, “or this place’s?”

Jeremy glances down at the cup and back up at Richard, eyes twinkling dangerously now. “If I answer honestly, will it ruin my chances of a shag later?”

“Clarkson!” James barks, and both Richard and Jeremy fall over themselves in laughter, leaning on the table heavily, losing themselves. It feels good to laugh, after all the shit they’ve been through over the past few days, and even James sees the funny side and joins in with his hideous donkey bray.

“If the _Daily Mail_ has bugged me they will be having a heart attack right now,” Jeremy says between gasps.

Richard leans forward across the table and smiles suggestively. “Shall I tell them all the things we want to do to you?” he says in a stage whisper, making sure James can hear.

“Oi! We? Keep me out of your debauchery, thank you very much,” James interjects, and Jeremy and Richard fall over themselves with laughter again, laughing at nothing and everything.

***

 _11th March, 2015_  
“I’m a fucking knob?” Jeremy shouts down the phone once James picks up.

“Sod off, Clarkson,” he laughs, placing his spanner down on the table carefully. “I can tell when you’re really furious, you know, and you don’t sound it now.”

“Well, no,” Jeremy admits. “You said you, and I quote, ‘quite like me’. Even if I am a knob.”

Grabbing an oily rag with one hand, James takes a step back, tucking the telephone between his shoulder and ear and wiping his hands with the other. “Thought I’d give the papers a nice little soundbite.”

“Still. You didn’t have to do that.”

Leaning on his countertop, he switches the phone to his other ear and frowns. Something in Jeremy’s voice makes him pause, some twinge of melancholy that he can’t quite put his finger on. “What do you mean?”

“I’m a sinking ship,” Jeremy mutters, and James’ heart breaks at how depressed he sounds. “You and Hammond should both get on the lifeboats.”

“Nice metaphor. I think Richard and I are quite comfortable where we are, though.” He sighs, staring disinterestedly at the motorcycle engine on his kitchen table. He’s been fiddling with it for days, trying to keep his mind off the cameras crowded around his front doorstep, trying to crowd away the thoughts about the future.

Jeremy sighs, and it’s the sigh of a world-weary man. “I mean it, James. I know what’s coming, Danny’s had it out for me for years. Don’t bring yourself down with me. Your career isn’t over yet.”

“And yours is? Don’t be such a defeatist.”

“I—” Jeremy says, and he sounds so lost. “I don’t know.”

***

 _24th March, 2015_  
For two weeks they haven’t seen each other. Jeremy had flown off to the Isle of Man in the middle of the night for a few days, desperate to get away from the cameras, which, although thinning, were still crowded around the front door of his flat at all hours. James had gone quite mad and had ordered three new motorcycles from eBay just so he could take apart their engines and put them back together.

Richard had tried to train TG, which hadn’t gone well. He loves dogs, really, he does, but never has he met one quite so useless at everything as TG. He’d spent some time with the girls, of course, and had caught up with Mindy—despite the divorce they were trying to put on a united front—but altogether had lolled around the flat, doing nothing and feeling idle.

So now he was here, standing at Jeremy’s front door, feeling around for the keys he knows he put in his pocket before he left, feeling uneasy. Tonight is the eve of a very important day—tomorrow, Jeremy’s contract will run out, and they all know that the BBC has elected not to renew it. From tomorrow, he will officially be unemployed, and James and he don’t know how he’s going to take that news.

“Hammond!” Jeremy opens the door with a cry, and instantly, Richard can tell that he’s drunk—it’s written in the way he has to lean on the door heavily for support, the way his eyes are glassy.

“Jezza,” he replies cordially, stepping inside. “Didn’t wait for me, I see.”

Jeremy crowds him, pushing him back against the wall, eyes hungry. “I was waiting. Waiting for you.”

With this, he leans down and kisses Richard hungrily, placing his hands on Richard’s neck, the hollow of his back. Despite himself, he reacts immediately—being unable to touch his colleagues for the past few weeks has been torturous, and the tension has been unbearable. He arches and gasps, fisting his hands in Jeremy’s shirt, pulling him close, needing more, needing to get closer. He’s missed Jeremy so much.

“Oh, for pete’s sake,” James says from somewhere over to their left, but he’s not irritated, not really. “If you’re going to do that, at least shut the door.”

Jeremy pulls away from Richard to grab James by the wrist and pull him close, so that the three of them are all sharing personal space, still standing in the entrance hall. “Fine, there,” Jeremy says gruffly, kicking the door shut behind him. “Better?”

James doesn’t get a chance to respond before Jeremy descends on him, kissing along his jaw, up to his ear, back down to his lips. Richard watches hungrily, observing the way James tips his head back to expose his throat, the way his eyelids flutter, the way Jeremy turns to catch Richard’s eye. That’s all the encouragement he needs, so he turns on James, too, fingers deftly slipping underneath James’ t-shirt to stroke up his belly, nipping James’ neck gently.

“Want you, James,” Jeremy mumbles throatily, hands brushing Richard’s as they tug at the bottom of James’ shirt.

“Oi, what about me?” Richard teases, helping Jeremy slip James out of his shirt, smiling as Jeremy shoots him a dark glare—a glare that says _don’t be silly, stupid man_. He knows Jeremy wants him as well, knows it in the weight of his stare, the way he rakes his eyes over Richard’s body—it doesn’t need to be said.

James says nothing, just watches them both, eyes dark, mouth twisted. Even so, as Jeremy bends down to lick at his nipple, he gasps and locks eyes with Richard, hand sliding around to grasp at Richard’s arse.

“I’ve missed you two,” James mutters as Jeremy takes him by the hand and leads him down the hall, Richard trailing behind doggedly.

***

 _25th March, 2015_  
James wakes up abruptly, aware that something’s amiss. Richard is still sleeping soundly, spreading across the entire bed, limbs akimbo—but Jeremy isn’t there. The clock on the nightstand reads 06:25—early.

He gets up and pads silently into the kitchen, finds Jeremy there, staring out the window, looking so lost and defeated that it hurts his heart to see. He does the only thing he can, which is come up behind him and slide his arms around Jeremy’s stomach, pull him backwards. Jeremy grunts and relaxes into the touch, his head tipping back.

“Can’t sleep?” James murmurs, wary of speaking too loud and breaking the fragile peace that surrounds them.

“Must be older than I thought. I’m waking up earlier and earlier,” Jeremy replies gruffly, but James knows better than that. Jeremy’s insomnia tends to rear its head at the worst of times, and although he fell asleep easily last night, he suspects that was due to the copious amounts of wine he consumed.

James presses a kiss to Jeremy’s shoulder, briefly inhaling the scent of him—the huskiness of his sweat, mixed with remnants of wine and some other essence that is uniquely Jeremy—and turns away to make them both a cup of tea. “How are Hammond and I going to leave without being spotted?”

“We’ll have to get you disguises,” Jeremy replies, and when James looks over from the kettle he’s moved forward so his forehead is pressed up against the window. “With your hair, you can be Einstein.”

“And Hammond?”

Jeremy shrugs, his breath fogging up the glass. “Dunno. Dress him up in spandex and he can be a crazy cyclist.”

James stifles a laugh. “Which then raises the question as to why you’re harbouring Albert Einstein and a crazed cyclist in your flat.”

Laughing, Jeremy turns to James, reaching for a mug. “Right, so my plan has a few flaws. Looks like you’ll just have to stay here forever.”

They both stare at each other for a moment, smiling over their mugs, before the silence is broken by Richard wandering in, scratching his head. “I heard something about cyclists. Are you two old farts lamenting that you can’t even get your leg high enough to get on a bike?”

“He’s grumpy in the mornings,” Jeremy stage-whispers to James, eyes crinkled at the corners as he grins gleefully.

***

 _28th March, 2015_  
The decision to not renew their contracts was so obvious that it they hadn’t even spoken of it—it didn’t need to be said. It wasn’t until the BBC had started ringing them up that they’d both realised, startled, that perhaps they should inform them of the decision.

They’re on the phone to each other, because it’s all they seem to do these days. The cameras have thinned, thankfully, but they still follow Jeremy around, making it hard for them to see each other as much as they used to, when they could live in peace and turn up round each other’s places whenever they wanted. They can’t even have a three way call, because neither Jeremy nor James know how to work that function on their phones.

“Do you know if he’s writing?” Richard asks hopefully. Often, in a time of a crisis, Jeremy will pound out four or five columns at a time; writing is cathartic to him.

“He hasn’t mentioned it, but I suppose he will be,” James replies, sounding distant and far away—he’s probably put him on speakerphone while he tinkers with one of his engines. “Oh, I forgot to mention. Danny himself rang me today.”

“To implore you into staying?” Richard asks. He’s lying on the sofa, feet hanging off the edge, staring mindlessly at the telly.

“Yes. He offered quite the significant pay rise, too,” James tells him.

Richard rolls over so he’s on his side and balances the phone on his face. “He could offer me a billion pounds per minute and I still wouldn’t do it. Not without Jeremy.”

James laughs. “You’re talented, Richard, but that’s reaching a little bit. But yes, I agree. It’s not the same without him.”

Smiling, even though he knows James can’t see it, he reaches for the remote and clicks through the channels. “I hope he knows that. Do you think he knows that? Maybe we should tell him.”

“Richard.” James’ voice is alarmingly loud, and it startles him a little bit—James has obviously picked up the phone. “We told him when we stayed over the other night, remember? Besides, even if we hadn’t, he knew.”

“How?”

“Because we love him, you pikey. He knows that.”

***

 _13th April, 2015_  
Things after that happen very fast, for all three of them.

The decision that James and Richard made to not renew their contracts didn’t come as a surprise to anyone except the BBC. As the amount of money being offered kept climbing and climbing, they became sure of themselves that the presenters—and Andy—would stay.

Except they didn’t, and in a very un- _Top Gear_ like way, joined Jeremy on his isle of unemployment and misery and turned to the future as one. It wasn’t a decision he’d expected of them. He knew they loved him, in more ways than one, but they both had themselves to look after—so when they’d jumped ship, it just proved to him the amount of respect and love they held for him was, although appreciated, completely unfounded.

But now they were unemployed, all three of them. So James had taken to playing the recorder and cooking for the internet; Richard was still trying to train Top Gear dog, only now she was actively defying him in protest; and Finlo had come to stay with Jeremy for a few weeks, while he did his A-Levels—a welcome distraction.

“Go on then,” Richard says, settling himself down onto Jeremy’s sofa like he owns the place. “I wanna hear it.”

Jeremy smiles at Richard’s eagerness. “Gotta wait for James,” he points out, nodding towards the kitchen.

Richard rolls his eyes. “Him and his fucking poncy beer. Why can’t he just drink normal shit like the rest of us?”

James finally appears, carrying a packet of crisps and, sure enough, a pint of his fancy beer. He sits on the sofa next to Richard, elbowing him politely to get him to move over. “Because some of us have tastebuds, you know.”

Jeremy looks at them both evenly. “Will both of you please shut the fuck up?”

They settle obediently, and it’s a scene that he could get used to: Richard, legs tucked up underneath him, stealing crisps from the bag that sits on James’ chest, who is stretched out like a cat on his sofa. Both looking at him eagerly, expectantly.

So he opens his mouth and begins to read.

“As you may have heard, the BBC has taken my gun and my badge, and I must admit it’s all been a bit of a shock,” he begins, settling into reading, watching his colleague’s facial expressions for their reactions.

He’s written and rewritten this column about fifty times, but he’s finally happy with it. So much has happened in such a short space of time—just a month. So many events that he’s still coming to grips with. He can’t fathom what snapped in him that day, what made him lose it and punch Oisin; it’s not something he wants to repeat.

“...I’d thrown myself even more vigorously into my job and now, idiotically, I’d managed to lose that too…”

Top Gear was his life and soul, really, it was. Perhaps silly of him to get so emotional over what was, at the end of the day, a job—a job that could be lost like any other—but him and Andy (and James and Richard of course) had spent years of their lives writing, editing, discussing, filming the show, and he missed it terribly. Perhaps the greatest thing Top Gear had done for him—apart from letting him drive a Veyron, of course—was giving him the opportunity to meet the two men sitting in front of him. He’d never expected to fall in love with a man, let alone two of them, but somehow it just all worked seamlessly, like it was meant to happen, ridiculous as that sounds.

“...The hole it’s left behind seems to stretch for eternity…”

He rarely turns odd and introspective like this, it’s not in his character. But something about this past month has rocked him to his core, changed something. As he continues to read aloud, watching James and Richard’s facial expressions, he relaxes. The worst is over. They made it through. There will be a future for all of them.

“The child is grown. The dream is gone. I have become uncomfortably numb.”

He finishes quietly, and instantly, as one, Richard and James get up and tug him down to the sofa between them, pressing up against him silently. They don’t need to say anything, not by now. They’ve been through hell and back, all three of them, but they weathered the storm and stuck together, somehow even stronger. That doesn’t need words.

Yes, he thinks, as James’ hand slides around his middle, as Richard shifts closer to rest his head on his chest. Change most certainly is a strange and wonderful thing.

**Author's Note:**

> at the end I reference the article jeremy wrote after the fracas and you can read it [here](https://www.reddit.com/r/TopGear/comments/332h04/clarkson_im_having_another_baby_but_i_cant_tell/), heads up it still gets me emo to this day


End file.
